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Here, on we publish only the highest quality stories from great writers around the world. To have work published on is testament to the finest writing ability. Once published, we share your success with others, announce your achievement on Twitter, and give good writing, great publicity. The site receives in excess of 300,000 page views per month and is the number one site on search engines for various genres.

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While My Knife Hand Gently Weeps

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Lurching awake, gasping for air, and I've dreamt of her again. It's the same as always, lately. She's in Hell, neck deep in snake’s blood, with a foetus hanging above her, and her head is on fire. It doesn't get any better, not even with the pills.

The psychiatrist has asked me what else occurs in this dream.

“ The foetus is crying, “ I told her.



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At the southern end of the village, where the river widened, there was a cove.  The cove’s water was deep and made for an excellent natural harbor.  The gentle hills that surrounded the cove sheltered it on three sides.   A series of wharves jutted into the river along a narrow beach.  Docked at the wharves were boats of every size and shape. Piles of crates, large pots, and bundles lined the wharves. Men were off-loading goods from boats, and men were loading goods onto boats.


Shit for Brains

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Angelo Pinterano was a seventeen year old living in Elmhurst, New York at the beginning of the 1970‘s. He quit high school and was working as an apprentice furniture slipcover maker. “This is a good future for a boy like you Angie,” his boss Mr. Kopelstein assured him. Angie silently replied, but with a faux smile as he stitched a beaded lavender laced sofa cover.


The Jailbird's Song

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From: This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it


To: This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it


Re: Reduced Sentence for Murder


Dear Neal,


Thank you for taking the time to work with the police recently.


Before I begin, I need to make it clear this message will auto delete 5 minutes from opening or if you attempt to save it. So read carefully.


Cold and Ancient

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Washington was a sight to behold. The State that is. Escaping the abhorrent inferno of Texas summer to the crisp-cool weather, overcast skies, lush forests, imposing mountains, and the scenic Pacific coast was an axiomatic improvement for my soul. My eclectic and eccentric uncle (rest in peace) had always been a favorite of mine and I always loved when we would embark on family vacations to visit him in the magical northwest. Naturally upon his passing I was grieved and simultaneously taken aback at the news that he had left a portion of his estate to me in his will.


Get Me Outta Here

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Don Young was a petty thief. He focused on robbing any place that looked easy like quickie marts and mom and pop stores. His wife, Karen, was constantly nagging him to change his life. “Get out of the robbing business Don. What you’re doing is wrong.  I don’t want to be married to a thief.”

“Karen, what else can I do? I don’t have any skills. I don’t have a high school diploma. What do you want me to do?”


The Tube

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Chris did not like underground trains. He would plan his day meticulously to avoid using them. His whole life was taken up planning his journeys using buses, trains, taxis, foot, or even a combination of all four.


The Stones

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I watched a small family move into the house across the street a few months back. We learnt they were called the Stones. They did not relate with the neighbors and seemed to love the dark, and the solitude of their house. We thought that to be weird and tried to engage them in conversations, but they looked at us like we were the walking dead. With time, we all learnt to live without disturbing them. They had the right to live their lives the way they wanted, as long as they did not break any laws.

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